“Yeah!”
“It is Article A in our Constitution. But as to the rest of the cogs, especially those Commie bastards in Peep-East that traitor General Nitz is so pally with. Like that Marshal Paponovich or whatever his name is. Well, like I’ve explained to you in our past secret meetings down here—”
“Right, Febbs!”
“—they’re really going to get it. They’re the worst. But mainly we have to seize—and I demand absolute obedience on this, because this is tactically crucial—we initially must gain control of the ENTIRE SUBSURFACE INSTALLATIONS OF LANFERMAN ASSOCIATES IN CALIFORNIA, because as we all know, it’s from there the new weapons come. Like this 401 they stupidly turned over to us for—ha-ha—’plowsharing.’ I mean, we don’t want them to build any more of these.”
Martha Raines asked timidly, “And what do we do after we, ah, seize Lanferman Associates?”
Febbs said, “Thereupon we then arrest their hired stooge, that Lars Powderdry, And then we compel him to start designing weapons for us.”
Harry Markison, a middle-aged businessman with a certain amount of common sense, spoke up. “But the weapon by which we won what they are now calling ‘The Big War’ with—”
“Get to it, Markison.”
“It, uh, wasn’t designed by Mr. Lars, Incorporated. Originally it was some sort of maze invented by some non-cog toy-manufacturing outfit, Klug Enterprises. So—don’t we have to beware that this Klug fella—”
“Listen,” Febbs said quietly. “I’ll tell you the real scoop on that. But now I’m busy.”
He then picked up a small Swedish watchmaker’s screwdriver and resumed the task of reassembling weapon 401. He ignored the other five concomodies. There was no more time for blabbing; work had to be done, if their blitz-swift coup again the cog elite was to be successful. And it would be.
Three hours later, with most of the components (in fact all except one fast, outlandish, goose-neck-squash-like geegaw) assembled ready for all systems go, with Febbs wet with perspiration and the other five concomodies out of their minds or bored or restless, depending on their natures, there sounded—shockingly, making the room suddenly deathly still—a knock at the door.
Laconically, Febbs grunted, “I’ll handle this.” From the tool bin he lifted a beautifully balanced Swiss chrome-steel hammer and walked slowly across the room, past the rigid, pale other five concomodies. He unbolted, unfastened, untied the triple-locked door, opened it a crack, peered out into the gloomy hall.
A spic-and-span-new shiny autonomic ‘stant mail delivery robot stood there, waiting.
“Yes?” Febbs inquired.
The ‘stant mail robot whirred, “Parcel for Mr. Surley Grant Febbs. Registered. Sign here if you are Mr. Febbs or if not Mr. Febbs then on line two instead.” It presented a form, pen and flat surface of itself on which to scribble.
Laying down the hammer Febbs said, turning briefly to the other five concomodies, “It’s okay. More tools we ordered, probably.” He signed the form, and the autonomic ‘stant mail delivery robot handed him a brown-paper-wrapped package, Febbs shut the door, stood shakily holding the package, then shrugged in courageous defiance. He walked unconcernedly back to where he had been sitting.
“You’ve got guts, Febbs,” Ed Jones declared, expressing the sentiments of the group. “I was sure it was an Einsatzgruppe from KACH.”
“In my opinion,” Harry Markison said, with overwhelming relief, “it looked to be the goddam Soviet secret police, the KVB. I’ve got a brother-in-law in Estonia—”
Febbs said, “They’re just not smart enough to pinpoint our meetings. History will deal them out, evolution-wise to make way for superior forms.”
“Yeah,” Jones agreed. “Like look how long it took them to come up with a weapon to defeat the alien slavers from Sirius with.”
“Open the package,” Markison said.
“In time,” Febbs said. He fitted the squash-like gewgaw in place and mopped his drenched, steaming forehead.
“When do we act, Febbs?” Gill asked. They all sat, eyes fixed on Febbs, waiting for his decision. Aware of this, he felt relaxed. The pressure was off.
“I’ve been thinking,” Febbs said, in his most Febbs-ish manner. It had been deep thinking, indeed. Reaching out, he picked up the weapon, tearwep item 401, held it cradled, his hand on the trigger.
“I required the five of you,” he said, “because I had to obtain all six components that constitute this weapon. However—”
Pressing the trigger he demolecularized, by means of the wide-angle setting of the phase-inversion beam emanating from the muzzle of the weapon, his fellow five concomodies at their seats here and there around the rickety table.
It happened soundlessly. Instantly. As he had anticipated. The vid and aud tapes from Lanferman Associates, shown to the Board, had indicated these useful aspects of item 401’s action.
There was now left only Surley G. Febbs. And armed with Earth’s most modern, fashionable, advanced, soundless, instant weapon. Against which no defense was yet known… even to Lars Powderdry, whose business it was to conjure up such things.
And you, Mr. Lars, Febbs said to himself, are next.
He laid the weapon down carefully and, with calm hands, lit another cigarette. He regretted that there was no longer anyone in the room to witness his rational, precise movements—anyone but himself, anyhow.
And then, because obviously now he had time to spare, Febbs reached out, picked up the brown-paper-wrapped package which the autonomic ‘stant mail delivery robot had brought and set it directly before him. He unwrapped it, slowly, leisurely, meditating in his infinitely subtle mind on the future which lay so close ahead.
He was frankly puzzled by what he found within the wrappings. It was not additional tools. It was nothing he, or the now-nonexistent organization FUCFDUTCRBASEBFIN, Cell One, had ordered. It was in fact a toy.
Specifically, he discovered as he lifted the lid of the brightly colored, amusing box, it was a product of the marginal toy-maker, Klug Enterprises. A game of some kind. A child’s maze.
He felt, immediately, on an instinctive level—because after all he was no ordinary man—acute, accurate, intuitive dismay. But not sufficiently acute, accurate or intuitive enough to cause him to hurl the box aside. The impulse was there. But he did not act on it—because he was curious.
Already he had seen that this was no common maze. It intrigued his uniquely subtle, agile mind. It held him gripped so that he continued to peer at the maze, then at the instructions on the inside lid of the box.
“You are the world’s foremost concomody,” a telepathic voice sounded in his mind, emanating from the maze itself. “You are Surley Grant Febbs. Right?”
“Right,” said Febbs.
“It is you,” the telepathic voice continued, “who make the primary decision as to the worthwhileness of each consumer commodity newly introduced on the market. Right?”
Febbs, feeling a cold bite of caution over his heart, nevertheless nodded. “Yes, that’s so. They have to come to me first. That’s my job on the Board—I’m the current concomody A. So they give me the important components.”
The telepathic voice said, “Vincent Klug of Klug Enterprises, a small firm, would therefore, Mr. Febbs, like you to examine this new game, The Man In The Maze. Please determine whether in your expert opinion it is ready for marketing. A form is provided on which you may transcribe your reactions.”
Febbs said haltingly, “You mean you want me to play with this?”
“That is exactly what we want. Please press the red button on the right side of the maze.”
Febbs pressed the red button.
In the maze a tiny creature gave a yelp of horror.
Febbs jumped, startled. The tiny creature was roly-poly and adorable-looking. Somehow it was appealing even to him—and he normally detested animals, not to mention people. It began to hurry frantically through the maze, seeking the way out.
The placid telepathic voice continued. “You will notice that this product, made for the domestic market and soon to be run off in quantity if it successfully passes such initial tests as you are providing it, bears a striking resemblance to the famous Empathic-Telepath Pseudononhomo Ludens Maze developed by Klug Enterprises and utilized recently as a weapon of war. Right?”
“Y-yes.” But his attention was still fixed on the travails of the tiny roly-poly creature. It was having a terrible time, becoming more confounded and more embroiled in the tortured ways and byways of the maze each second.
The harder it tried the deeper it became enmeshed. And that’s not right, Febbs thought or rather felt. He experienced its torment, and that torment was appalling. Something had to be done about it, and now.
“Hey,” he said feebly. “How do I get this animal, whatever it is, out?”
The telepathic voice informed him, “On the left-hand side of the maze you will find a gaily-colored blue stud. Depress that stud, Mr. Febbs.”
Eagerly he pressed it.
He felt at once, or imagined he felt (which was it? The distinction seemed to have evaporated) a diminution of the terror surging within the trapped animal.